


The Admiral in the Archives

by NevillesGran



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cats, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-11-07 16:43:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20820518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran/pseuds/NevillesGran
Summary: Georgie brings the Admiral to the Institute to get free cat-sitting and give Jon one last chance to be human.Admiral POV.





	1. In Which the Admiral Visits the Archives

**Author's Note:**

> It is a truth universally acknowledged that any fandom in possession of a canonical beloved animal character must be in want of a fic from that animal’s POV.

The Admiral doesn’t like this place. His personal human brought him here, in the Plastic Box of Leaving Home, and let him out in a room that smells like her former assistant-in-care/not-quite-mate. Then she left him there, the doors closed.

He was a good assistant personal human, when the Admiral was young, and again (with a little retraining) when he moved back some time ago. His name in human is irrelevant and his name in Cat is very long, but it translates roughly to Lap-Long-Time. That’s an approving appellation.

This place that is clearly Lap-Long-Time’s territory, though, is terrible. Something is watching the Admiral. It won’t stop. He doesn’t know where it is so he can’t hide properly; he tries under the chair, under the desk, the top of a metal cabinet and it’s  _still watching him_. He snarls at where it might be, which is anywhere, and it  _doesn’t leave_.

When he tries yowling instead, a woman comes. He’s mid-leap as soon as the door opens, but he twists in mid-air and darts under the desk, because she could _eat_ him. The Admiral is a cat, the supreme hunter of all he surveys, slayer of many bugs and yarns and once a mouse—but this human is a greater hunter yet. Her teeth and claws dull, sheathed, invisible, but they’re still  there.

He hisses at her from where she can’t see. He  _is_ a cat, supreme hunter of all, and this is  _his_ assistant personal human’s territory, and thus his own as well. He won’t go down without a fight.

Lap-Long-Time arrives, then, and the Hunter cedes the space. Suspicious—an ambush? Or simply respect for his territory? (Lap-Long-Time does have a sense of that constantly-watching about him. It was there when he moved back in with the Admiral and it’s stronger now. Not all the sense of being watched comes from him, but some of it certainly does, and intensifies with his presence.)

But this is...acceptable, the Admiral decides, as Lap-Long-Time crouches to speak human at him and attempt to lure him out from under the desk with chin scratches. Attention (when desired) is one of the primary duties due a human to their cat, and this _is_ one of the Admiral’s humans. And he’s still very good at chin scratches. So the Admiral will work with him on the issue of overzealous attention-giving.

He comes out from under the desk and leaps on the chair with a meow. Still reasonably well-trained, Lap-Long-Time gestures his understanding and takes his place, providing the all-important lap. 

The Admiral doesn’t sprawl immediately across it, however. He sits and glares across the desk at the Hunter, still in the doorway, and lashes his tail in threat. He understands now why Feeds-Me brought him here (again, her name is much longer in Cat, but simplifiable to the most important parts.) Lap-Long-Time is very bad at looking out for himself; his name comes from his willingness to neglect his own food for _hours_ in favor of stillness and being a lap (and using a book or other human entertainment.) He must need help defending his territory from this Hunter, or worse.

The glare, perhaps in conjunction with Lap-Long-Time’s ceaseless watching, works almost immediately. The Hunter lowers her eyes and shrinks her body, save to extend one tentative hand as she approaches. The claws are as hidden as they can be and she makes supplicating human speech, as does Lap-Long-Time. His is accompanied by firm, soothing strokes down the Admiral’s back. 

The Admiral concedes to sniff the Hunter’s hand, and mark her with one cheek-rub worth of his scent. She’s just a  _human_ Hunter, after all, and he is a cat. If he’s to stay here all day, perhaps he’ll start training her as well. Feeds-Me can always use more assistants.


	2. In Which the Admiral Loses his Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally added plot.

The day is good. The Admiral stretches across Lap-Long-Time’s lap, filling the parts of the chair that the human doesn’t (he really doesn’t eat enough. It’s concerning.) Lap-Long-Time lives up to his name, moving only the parts necessary for his human work and—much more importantly—petting his cat. For a while, the Admiral is so content that he bares the soft skin of his stomach (for more petting.)

The  _ watching _ doesn’t stop, though. One of those small whirring boxes appears on the desk, and it  _ intensifies _ . The Admiral digs his claws into Lap-Long-Time’s legs on reflex, but it still. Doesn’t. Stop.

A better opportunity presents itself almost immediately: Lap-Long-Time calls out and pushes his chair back, and in walks Coiled-to-Leap. 

The Admiral  _ likes _ Coiled-to-Leap. She’s been a friend of Feeds-Me for years, and can often be persuaded to give treats. For a while, the very scent of her made him want to claw things to pieces, rip and tear and shred and  _ kill _ , but that’s stopped, now. Instead, she and Feeds-Me have started a complicated human courting process, which the Admiral approves of very much. He get more treats and Feeds-Me gets to have sex, with no danger of human kittens. 

The Admiral has heard terrible stories about how much attention human kittens can take away from a cat.

So he jumps off his lap and winds about Coiled-to-Leap’s legs, meowing at her affectionately and completely ignoring Lap-Long-Time. It’s harsh, but the man  _ needs  _ to learn to ease up on the unwanted attention.

It doesn’t ease up. Irritated ( _ not _ scared), the Admiral walks out on them. 

Coiled-to-Leap breaks off her human speech to follow him, pausing only to close the door behind them—and that, at last, relieves some of the terrible observation. Not much, though. Not much at all.

He follows Coiled-to-Leap to her desk, in case there will be treats. There are not. She attempts to pet him, and he tolerates it for a moment before shying away—he’s just too  _ seen _ . He doesn’t like it. He retreats under her desk, which helps a little more—Coiled-to-Leap peers after him, but when he hisses sharply, she looks away, and drops her jacket down instead. 

It’s a well-chosen offering. The Admiral burrows under it, leaving only his head exposed. A cat doesn’t hide (completely). A cat stares back. 

Except when a cat wants to sleep, which he does. 

He’s woken by more of that terrible  _ attention _ , crawling down his spine like an unwanted hand, like burrowing mites, like a growling dog where he can't see. Predictably, it comes with the scent of Lap-Long-Time, the sound of his voice and of Coiled-to-Leap’s curt retorts.

The Admiral grumbles at them to let their cat sleep. A growl hovers under his words—there’s only so much a cat can take. He doesn’t  _ like _ this place.

This time, the sight takes him like a claw in the exposed belly. With a yowl, he rockets out from under the desk. 

“Admiral, wait!” 

A door opens before him, to a long hallway that doesn’t smell like this all-watching place. He ignores Lap-Long-Time’s cries and races through.


	3. In Which the Admiral May or May Not Meet At Least One Other Cat

The Admiral is almost certain that these hallways are full of cats.

But it might just be mirrors. He’s a worldly cat; he knows about human mirrors and how they can trick you into thinking there’s another cat staring back at you. Some of these are _ definitely _ mirrors, all the clues are there: the smell is just glass and polish, the cat moves exactly opposite how the Admiral does, and has the same texture fur and one notched ear. 

But others...the fur is wrong, too short or too long or not quite the right color. The notched ear is on the other side. The eyes are _many_ wrong colors, shifting and swirling like a feather before a fan.

They move when he doesn’t, or don’t move when he does. There are cats far in the distance that dart through doors, leap from walls, chase behind him but only when he’s not quite looking. He can hear them, distant yowls and crashes of combat—until he tries to listen to what is _ happening_, and it all falls silent. He can smell them, or he can’t—he chases the scent from one corner to the next and loses it, and it’s not a proper cat scent anyway. It’s a fresh bacon sandwich. It’s a dead mouse outside after rain. It’s there one moment and gone the next, and he’s still not even sure it was _ there _ in the first place.

When he finally finds another real cat, resting in the middle of the hallway, it’s so unexpected that he runs directly into her flank.

She turns and licks the spot smooth again, very scornfully, but her blink is amused. “You are very lost, Mr. Cat.”*

The Admiral backs up stiffly. She’s lovely and grey, subtly striped, and larger even than he is. Though not quite at this moment, when she’s curled up and relaxed and he’s standing with back arched and hair on end. 

“My apologies,” he says curtly. “I’m trying to get back to the Too-Watched Place. Some of my assistant humans are there. Do you know the way?”

Her teeth are a cat’s, but the face she makes with them is not. “I do.”

“Then take me there!”

Her eyes, he realizes too late, are the same spinning colors as the maybe-cats in the not-mirrors. He’d thought she had a scent, but now she just smells like the hallways themselves. His ears flatten of their own accord.

She laughs like a human. The mirrors echo with it. The edges of her fur start to disappear; nothing but swirling eyes and bared teeth remain solid.

Every muscle in the Admiral’s body wants to flee, but he forces himself to stay and bare his teeth right back. “I said, _ take me there!_”

“Oh, yes,” she purrs, through the echoes of her laugh. He can’t see her anymore at all, but the voice is clear. “I’ve had my fun.”

A door opens where there definitely wasn’t even a wall, a moment ago. The Admiral doesn’t care. He’s through it in a flash.

The new place is...also wrong. The Admiral is in an office again, floor and walls the same as Lap-Long-Time’s, but with different furniture and nobody in it. There are windows, which show a grey sky. Something is watching the Admiral again, but it’s farther away. 

Some scents are similar, paper and old wood polish, but with no trace of Lap-Long-Time, nor Coiled-to-Leap or even the Hunter. Instead, the Admiral’s mouth fills with the taste of dust, chill fog, and...nothing else. There are no more scents to taste, here. It’s a dizzying opposite of the not-mirrored hallways: there is no trace of food, of fighting, of _ anyone_. 

Just to check, he leaps onto the desk and knocks several papers to the floor. Nobody comes. With some delight—it’s _ never _ allowed with Feeds-Me—he knocks off a mug full of pens. They clatter very satisfyingly, and he thinks about leaping on them as they roll around on the floor.

But his ears are still pricked for the sound of footsteps and human scolding, and there is...nothing. Even the sense of being watched is fading. There’s just nobody here, nobody but the Admiral. 

He is absolutely and utterly alone.

The Admiral is done running around looking for the things he wants. He sits back on his haunches and yowls for all he’s worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dialogue translated roughly from Cat for the ease of human readers
> 
> [Just because the Admiral doesn't get the Cheshire Cat reference doesn't mean Helen can't have fun!]


	4. In Which the Admiral Acquires a Guide

The first person to appear is a human, probably. He’s tall and pale, and literally  _ appears _ , walking out of nothing but empty air. He smells of chilling fog and empty rooms. But his expression is very human-baffled, all wide eyes and mouth downturned but not in a snarl.

The Admiral quiets a little, shifting to interrogative (but still loud) meows. The fog-human shrugs his confusion and and shouts something over his shoulder.

Another human runs in, properly through the door. He’s holding a mug of tea and he smells a little more like flesh and blood. He looks just as bewildered—but  _ he _ reacts properly, handing the tea to his companion and crouching to approach the Admiral without threat, making pleading human noises as he extends a hand to be scented.

The Admiral doesn’t stop complaining, but he does sniff the hand, and lets it gently pet his ruff. It’s definitely human flesh and blood, though with a muffled, cool quality that he doesn’t like at all. 

But with his touch, there returns not just the comfort of other people, but the sense of being  _ seen _ . Just a glimmer, just a flicker, to make the Admiral twitch his tail and look over his shoulder. There’s still nothing there that he can see back. 

The not-as-cold man follows his gaze, and gives a soft cry of exasperation when he notices the mess of papers and the pens all over the floor. The Admiral twitches his tail again, this time in amusement. And because it knocks one more piece of paper off the desk. 

The human makes another, more irritated cry. The Admiral gives a cat’s snigger. This is much better.

The colder one makes human speech. His pale eyes watch the Admiral warily, like he’s deciding whether to strike or flee. The Admiral stares back with equal distaste.

Less-Cold (provisional name in Cat) makes apologetic noises, and extends his hand again to the Admiral, cooing softly. The Admiral scent-marks it, one wary eye still on Empty-Chill. Less-Cold pets around gently until he’s tugged the Admiral’s collar out from under his fur, and holds the jingling tags up to read.

The Admiral permits it, proudly. If they know who he is, they can help him find his personal human again, or at least her assistants.

It works! Less-Cold exclaims his name (the Admiral doesn’t speak Human, but he knows his own name in it.)

Less-Cold coos a little more, giving some quite good head pets, then makes more incomprehensible speech to Empty-Fog. His noises come with worried looks out the office door. 

The Admiral knows a good sign when he sees it. He leaps off the desk and rubs commandingly against Less-Cold’s ankles as he walks toward the door. 

Yet Less-Cold doesn’t follow. Humans need  _ so _ much training. The Admiral sits in the doorway and meows impatiently—but they’re too busy engaging in a pointless threat display. It’s just more human speech, but if Empty-Chill had fur, it would be bristling with threat, and if Less-Cold had a tail, it would be tucked down...but bristling as well.

The Admiral struts back and paws at Less-Cold’s leg, hissing at Empty-Chill as he does. He needs a  _ guide _ , in this terrible place full of watching and mirrors and emptiness, and he will  _ not _ lose this most helpful-seeming option to a pointless humanoid squabble.

Empty-Chill  _ flinches _ , which is entirely satisfying. The Admiral licks his ruff in dignified victory.

Less-Cold ruins the poise completely by picking the Admiral up. Not only is it un-asked-for and terribly personal, but it’s  _ clumsy _ , and the Admiral ends up on his back in the human’s arms. His grip is firm and his chest reassuringly broad, but it completely undercuts the imperious glare the Admiral sends at Empty-Chill as they leave.

Or, at where Empty-Chill used to be. He’s disappeared again, with a deepening of the muffling fog that shouldn’t even be indoors in the first place.

With a huff, the Admiral lets himself be carried away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Peter understand that he’s outranked? Or is he just that scared of confrontation—or of cats? We may never know...


	5. In Which Discussion is Unexpectedly Had

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter than usual! Confrontation! Drama!

They’re halfway down the second set of stairs, the terrible sense of Attention growing with every step, when Lap-Long-Time rushes up to meet them.

“Admiral!” he cries. “Where were you?”

The Admiral doesn’t even mind how hard he’s being stared at; he purrs just to see a familiar human. He twists to roll over, leap down. “I was in some _ terrible _ hallways, there was a thing _ pretending _to be a cat—”

Then he freezes, and digs his claws into Less-Cold’s arms for balance, before the human can let him drop. He can almost feel his pupils widen, as though extra light will help him understand. 

“You speak _ Cat?!_”

“What? No, I—” 

Lap-Long-Time puts his hand to his mouth, eyes wide, and grips the banister for support. “Oh my god, I understood that.”

Less-Cold makes human noises, higher-pitched than before. He hugs the Admiral a little closer, which the Admiral isn’t sure he wants, then tries to push him towards Lap-Long-Time instead—which the Admiral _ definitely _ doesn’t want. 

But he even more doesn’t want to be half-supported in midair and on his back for this conversation. So he lets Less-Cold drop him, then prowls back and forth across his feet for a moment. Fortunately, the humans are busy exclaiming at one another, which buys him a little more time to consider the issue, and then Coiled-to-Leap and the Hunter and a third human woman arrive behind Lap-Long-Time, all looking curious.

Less-Cold’s voice trails off and the air grows cool and damp at the Admiral’s back. He plops his butt down on Less-Cold’s feet and meows as he digs his claws into the leathery shoes, until the human’s presence returns properly. He is _ not _ giving up this refuge against the worst of the unseen staring.

“How long have you been able to speak Cat?” he demands. 

Lap-Long-Time crouches to speak to him more politely. “I am not speaking Cat,” he insists, nonsensically. “I’m—“ 

He glances up at his human friends, and back at the Admiral, bewildered, resigned, and with too much focus. “I suppose I want to know things from you, so we’re mutually intelligible.”

The Admiral curls his tail around his back with dignity. It doesn’t quite make sense—but what of humans does? And when he pays attention, he can hear the human speech beyond what Lap-Long-Time says, can easily see how he does barely any of the correct movements of posture, whiskers...he doesn’t even _ have _ whiskers, or moveable ears, or a tail! It should make him unintelligible, but instead it just gives him a somewhat flat accent.

“You’re getting stranger every time you move away,” the Admiral decides. “You need to come home, to me and Feeds-Me. We’ll teach you how to do things properly again.”

Though he’s beginning to understand the real problem, he thinks. Not just the single office but this whole area that’s far too watched, all the time, is Lap-Long-Time’s territory; if he isn’t the sole Watcher, he’s certainly doing some of it. And it _ is _under threat, but not from the Hunter, nor the other humans in residence there (clever of Lap-Long-Time, really, to accept some guests who can actually fight.) The danger is from the not-quite-there man upstairs, in his own, cold territory, and the maybe-cat in the hallways. 

Lap-Long-Time is protesting something about how Feeds-Me didn’t want him in her territory, which is unimportant, of course—the Admiral had approved it. The Admiral interrupts, with a flick of his ears up at Less-Cold. “Is this one an ally, or an enemy? He stares too much but he doesn’t want to be here.”

Lap-Long-Time looks uncertainly up at Less-Cold, and then down again, hunching with guilt.

“Ally,” he says firmly. “That’s _ Martin_.” He makes the sounds in human speech, presumably a name that doesn’t translate, and adds, “He’s...he knows what he’s doing.”

The Admiral is pretty sure he’s just stumbled into another elaborate human courtship thing. Cats are _ so _ much more sensible, not to mention direct. Whatever. He’ll manage it when Lap-Long-Time moves back in with him. 

For now, he stretches his front legs in preparation to stand, lashing the tip of his tail in anticipation. “Good. Then, I’ve already scared the cold person away once today; if we all go together, now, I bet we can chase him off for good.”

“What?” The humans all make curious noises, and Lap-Long-Time says something to them before returning his terrible attention to the Admiral. “How did you— we can’t just go scare him off, Admiral.”

“Of course we can. I hissed at him and he ran right off.” The Admiral licks his shoulder, affecting unconcern with his own impressiveness. “Anyway, we have a Hunter with us, don’t we. _She’ll _ tear him to pieces. I don’t know why you haven’t asked her before.”

Though maybe Lap-Long-Time doesn’t want to remind her that he himself is more prey than predator. That would make sense. The humans are all making their loud, undecipherable speech noises again; the Admiral waits patiently for them to sort themselves out. Less-Cold shifts a little under him, and he turns to dig one claw discreetly into the pants-clad shin, as a reminder to stop. He still wants this refuge of being slightly less peeled open by Lap-Long-Time’s over-attention.

Finally, Lap-Long-Time returns to him, crouching a little further with earnestness. “She doesn’t do that. Anymore.”

“_What?”_ The Admiral leaps off Less-Cold’s feet and stalks a circle around his poor, stupid would-be assistant-personal-human, down and up the steps again. He rubs fur and claiming scent on every part he can easily reach, and keeps a wary eye on the Hunter until he absolutely must turn away. “Lap-Long-Time, those taken with the Hunt don’t _ stop_. You have to be careful. I’ve heard—” 

He shudders. He’s never met anyone himself, but he’s heard stories. The blood and scraps left behind, the hound that didn’t stop slavering until the West London cats emptied a construction machine on it.

He realizes that Lap-Long-Time is watching him again, eyes too bright, biting his own lip with hunger. The Admiral doesn’t like it _ at all._ He darts back up to Less-Cold—except the man has vanished, leaving only a chill patch in the air.

The Admiral yowls with wordless frustration. 

Coiled-to-Leap pushes past Lap-Long-Time, making comforting and plaintive noises. She crouches a step above him, still a couple steps below the Admiral, and holds out a scrap of beef jerky. She has more in her other hand. 

The Admiral feels a little foolish for not noticing earlier (though he _ was _ distracted.) He eats it gladly.

“Fine, _ you _ may stay.” He casts a disdainful glance at the rest of the humans. Watching. His fur rises. “Stop that. Stop _ looking _ at me.”

Lap-Long-Time is snorting in laughter, but then he looks guilty, closes his eyes and turns away. 

It does feel better, a little. Less terribly _ seen._ Yet also...lacking.


	6. In Which an Invitation is Extended

The Admiral stays the rest of the day with Coiled-to-Leap, mostly hiding under the jacket under her desk. When Feeds-Me _ finally _ returns, he kneads her legs until she picks him up, so he can hide his face against her neck instead. It’s not quite home, not until they’re _ there_, but it smells the same. Some of the spine-tingling stress of being watched abates. She coos at him and he purrs back.

And, because he’s a responsible owner, he squirms back out of her grip as they pass Lap-Long-Time’s office, calls him from the doorway and, when he doesn’t respond, leaps up on his desk and meows in his face. “Come! We’re going home!”

Lap-Long-Time looks up from his papers with a confused blink. It’s still _ much _ too intent, but he does give the Admiral a good head scratch as he speaks. “What? Oh—it was nice to see you, then, Admiral. I’ll miss you.”

He looks down again, drooping. 

The Admiral headbutts his face. “No! You’re coming home with us! I did say!”

He turns away, to remind Lap-Long-Time that he is trusted and to get a start on leaving. But Lap-Long-Time just shakes his head, looking part the Admiral to Feeds-Me and Coiled-to-Leap in the door. “No, remember— _ Georgie _ doesn’t— That is, I have my own place. But thanks.”

Feeds-Me says something incredulous, and Coiled-to-Leap answers with a laugh in her voice. Lap-Long-Time adds something with a grimace. But he doesn’t stop the head scratching, which is the important part.

He doesn’t stop until Feeds-Me approaches the desk—but all she does is start petting the Admiral’s flank, while Lap-Long-Time manages his head, and with the ever-present Watching, the attention is _ almost _ too much...but not quite. It’s nicer than it is bad, because these are two of his most favorite humans. His eyes lid quite of their own accord.

Then Feeds-Me makes a human speech noise, pretending to be casual, and Lap-Long-Time does stop, because he’s too busy gaping at her, sitting up straight, looking happy. 

The Admiral leans up against his hand. “What are you saying? Are you coming home with us? You may have the couch again—they both sleep in the bedroom.” He flicks his tail toward Feeds-Me and Coiled-to-Leap, who has approached now as well.

“Oh!” Lap-Long-Time looks back and forth between the women and says something incomprehensible, awkward as a kitten sitting on its own tail.

The three of them keep making human speech, which the Admiral is starting to think is quite rude, now that he knows there’s an alternative. He butts Lap-Long-Time’s hand more firmly. “Are you coming or not? I want dinner.”

“Me too. I mean, dinner would be lovely. I do, er, I do still eat food. Normally.” 

He shifts his address to Feeds-Me, and stops petting the Admiral as he stands. (Though of course, he’s still _ watching_. They’re _ really _ going to have to work on that.) 

“I’ll just get my stuff— Oh, I still have the—”

He picks up the Plastic Box of Leaving Home from where it had been resting in a corner. The Admiral sighs as they attempt to usher him into it. At least this time he’s _ leaving _ this terrible place, and taking his best humans with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There WILL be an epilogue!


	7. Epilogue: Which Contains An Unexpected Meal

Jon didn’t notice the cat until she was halfway across his office and leaping onto his desk, with a scattering of paper and a stumble from a crooked back leg that clearly wouldn’t be acknowledged. She was a pretty thing, definitely owned by some human—not only by the collar, but with grey fur too fluffy and long to be so clean without brushing, and a paleness to the color that suggested an age a street cat wouldn’t usually reach. Especially with a bad leg.

“You are Humanwhodenieshimselffoodandmovementforentiredaysinfavorofbeingavailabletohiscatasalap,” she said archly, in a way that suggested that if he wasn’t, he’d better get his act together and become that, lest he commit the crime of inconveniencing her further. “I am Shewhostalksandwatchesbutremainscleanratherthansuccumbtothethrillofchaseandkill. I have come at request of Hewhodevoursfliesanddancesdowntallbuildings, to give you story and warning of the Hunt, and how we kept it at bay in my youth.”

Jon could  _ hear _ the meowing. It just twisted, somehow, into English speech, the way reflections of light off ink and paper twisted into written word. Her RP was impeccable. He would have thought that related to how cared-for and likely bred she was, except the Admiral had an only slightly less posh accent, and Jon knew from having been there at the time that he’d been born at a shelter in Havering. So it must just be a cat thing.

“Ah—do you mean the Admiral?” he asked, trying to put away the  _ talking to a cat  _ issue for the moment. It had been growing more normal over the last few weeks anyway, since he’d discovered it with the Admiral—and the Admiral seemed determined that they meet for frequent conversations.

Shewhostalksandwatchesbutremainscleanratherthansuccumbtothethrillofchaseandkill blinked at him as though he was slightly dull, but with a shoulder twitch that suggested she was nervous herself. 

“I don’t know his human name. Large and full-furred, pale fur on stomach, left ear nicked? You understand me, so you _ must _ be the human he speaks of.” Her tail curled around her legs, ears flattening. “He was also right that you look  _ far _ too aggressively at people, so if I’ve gotten the wrong office, tell me immediately so I can leave.”

“No, that’s definitely the Admiral,” Jon said hastily—and then forced himself to sit back, and close his eyes. Not that it helped much, in terms of diminishing his  _ awareness _ of the cat. There she sat, 15 years old, belong to (proud owner of) a family in Mayfair—and when she was three, the madness of the Hunt had run through the cats in her neighborhood, starting with an alleycat and spreading to everything he hunted, and everything drawn into hunting him, including Stalks-But-Stays-Clean herself. The memories of it were still crystal clear, sharpening to claws and teeth with every moment she sat here, and this factual knowledge was so weak, just a scent of a taste. If he just  _ asked _ _ – _ she was  _ willing _ _ – _ and just a  _ cat _ , after all – it might not even count, in the slow dissolution of what passed for his soul—

“Stop that,” Stalks-But-Stays-Clean snapped. She was still seated calmly, but her fur bristled as though with static electricity. “Stop  _ looking _ at me. Do you want my warning or not?”

“What warning?” Jon managed, and realized that he had opened his eyes again.

“The Hunt  _ does not stop _ ,” she said flatly. “I was barely touched, but those whom are truly taken by the thrill—no matter how healed they may act, the promise of the chase never leaves any true predator.” She relaxed, infestiminally, in the way Jon had learned to take his own thrill in. “I was barely out of kittenhood myself, when Shewhosepatternedfurletsherhideinshadowsfromenemies all but fell into my yard...”

The tape recorder had turned on when she entered, Jon realized dimly. He wondered it anyone who listened to it would understand anything but meowing—and then, for a while, he didn’t think about anything at all but the terror and thrill of the Hunt.

By the time her statement was over, Stalks-But-Stays-Clean was huddled in his lap and Jon was stroking her back as she shuddered with the remnants of terror. Jon barely even bothered telling himself that the tremble in his own hands was from anything but exhilaration. It hadn’t been much different than a statement from a human, really. A little simpler, perhaps; bereft of the metaphor most people leaned on to express the inexpressible. Cats were simpler than that.

“You might have nightmares, now,” he admitted quietly, and hoped that she still understood. The Admiral usually did. “Memories of the Hunt as you sleep. And they won’t stop.”

“I said, I already do,” the cat grumbled. “I’m old and even more stubborn, now. I’ll live.”

“Very impressive,” said Jon, and was rewarded with the faintest hint of a purr. 

He took a few moments to scratch her ears, which the Admiral said he was particularly good at. 

“If you’d like some treats before you go, I think… Humanalwayswiththetensionofcoilingtightandbarelyholdingbackfromtheleaptofight has some in her desk, which I’m sure Hewhodevourstaxesanddancessdowntallbuildings wouldn’t begrudge you, considering the circumstances.”

He was fairly sure he’d gotten the names in Cat wrong. They translated so bizarrely. 

But Stalks-But-Stays-Clean gave a yawn of affected calm disinterest and pushed herself to her feet, and dropped to the floor with a quiet  _ flumph _ . “He certainly owes me some treats at  _ least _ . You may escort me.”

She strode out of the room with her head high, and Jon followed obediently. She was, after all, a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, technically I just finished a multichapter fic. That is what I have done, here.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are like catnip! What’s your favorite part?


End file.
